


the icarus to your certainty

by crookeds



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Canon divergence but only barely, Existential Romance, Kingu's actions are just given a little more context, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookeds/pseuds/crookeds
Summary: A piece lingers. As if a grain of soul that goes unclaimed, looked over by the gods by mistake.Perhaps it was desperation that kept them in place, but then they think,Was I not desperate enough to remain completely intact? To stay as a whole?They are permanently put away into the dark, untouched and unknown.Enkidu is brought back in the cruelest manner.A look at Babylonia through Enkidu's eyes.





	the icarus to your certainty

This body has never been their own.

A fact never more apparent to Enkidu than in the moment that they die. When their corpse is destined to remain but their soul is slowly reduced to dust, poured out finite and thin between the cracks of the earth so that it might trickle back down where it came from.

But this body is capable of far more than they could ever imagine. A fact never more apparent to Enkidu than in the moment that they die.

Their soul so easily plucked out of place and distilled by the gods, ruin coming upon them like a plague. A hollowness carves into their chest that has nothing to do with the loss of life; so poignant as it rises in their body and leaves them shaken and full of regret.

Feeling.

Grief for the loss of what they feel they deserve, entitlement that comes in flashes. All the things they want: to be at his side after this moment, to find the strength to sit up and wipe his tears with the brush of their lips as they assure him they will not be leaving; the rest of his years and their purpose as his weapon fulfilled up until the very end.

Remorse. His tears are cool on their skin and Enkidu thinks they should not spill for anyone, least of all for them.

If they were to reach up and comfort him with a simple swipe of the thumb against his jaw they know it would be anything but. That it would seem sickly; such a moment would only show how they teeter on the edge of total collapse. So they are still at his side; useless to him.

A king should never show such an expression.

A whisper of a breath goes past their dry lips, chest caving, eyes rolling back. They are lackluster and failing, falling. This will be the last.

_It should be my sin to bear. Not yours—_

And so they leave him.

Alone.

 

 

—

 

 

A piece lingers. As if a grain of soul that goes unclaimed, looked over by the gods by mistake.

Perhaps it was desperation that kept them in place, but then they think, _'Was I not desperate enough to remain completely intact? To stay as a whole?'_

They are permanently put away into the dark, untouched and unknown.

Enkidu is brought back in the cruelest manner.

Their thoughts are quiet at first, remembering what it is to think—life is not so natural after so much time spent devoid of it. They’re eager for a moment as they find their footing, realizing with quick urgency: _I think, I feel, I am._

They thrive with the spark of hope that shudders through them. _I think, I feel, I am—alive, alive, back_.

The very same that fizzles itself out as quickly as they realize they have no say in their actions.

To take a step, to raise their arm; their voice speaks up unprompted and they are suddenly a stranger to what takes place around them. Their name is taken, their smile is stolen all in the name of friendliness to set up a trap.

Enkidu only has enough to see through their own (correction—his) eyes, but the perception is harshly altered. A jarring light and cruelty edges the outskirts of their vision, picking at weaknesses and flaws to be exploited. This is not their view of the world, so inlaid in sympathy and appreciation; this is a vengeful take, a desperation built upon violence.

It is the smallest part of them left to awaken—no real significance, not enough to claim control or reach past the confines of what surrounds them.

A single link of the long chain that is used by Kingu.

They call out his lie with their truth, _'This body is not my own—I am a tool to be used, being used.'_

Enkidu’s voice does not waver when used by him, and they are left a third party within themself, destined to observe.

 

 

—

 

 

Months spent alone with Kingu and they garner the majority of what’s been planned out for the world’s end. Enkidu feels a bitter irony watching Uruk’s demise unfold before them after they spent so many years working to prevent it; after they had died as a direct consequence of its survival. They exist as nothing more than a stray concept in the dark, trying time and time again to garner control. At first there’s false hope that is fleeting, a moment when they think they’ve caused a finger to twitch on their behalf, or even an unnecessary step in the wrong direction—but even if it is at their influence they cannot truly be sure, and it’s so minuscule that it would hardly matter even if it was.

Hearing him speak is always jarring. Even in his softer moments, praising his mother, declaring loyalty at Tiamat’s side, he is always a crueler version of themself. Their voice is torn to shreds with a cruel inflection that is as rough as it is unnatural, as if its very existence seeks to harm the earth around them.

And quickly enough, they decide that they hate Kingu. That their hatred for him is rivaled only by their hatred of Ishtar, and that, if finally given the opportunity, they would seek to destroy themself to at least destroy him as well.

Enkidu’s objective eye recognizes this much: Tiamat would not be at as much of a loss if suddenly left without Kingu’s presence, not as much as he believes, at least. That killing him would be borderline trivial, in the end. But they can’t help but appreciate the potential satisfaction of taking control, only to let the both of them fall as a result.

So each day they continue to try.

It is only when their desperation peaks, Gilgamesh close enough to touch (Kingu’s thoughts are always a mirror of their own: close enough to harm), do they finally manage to succeed.

The end of the world is a terrible thing; seeing him in the midst of it is even worse.

They want to reach out to him, initiate contact and indicate their presence behind the harsh violet eyes that differentiate him from them. Enkidu knows that’s all it would take. A single instance of contact, familiarity wrapped around their fingertips and an assured gentleness that no one else, not even a great pretender like Kingu, could replicate.

He’s largely the same as before. Packed with so much brilliance, everyone’s gaze forced to train itself onto him as soon as he speaks. Enkidu can feel the way that Kingu tenses, the way he ripples with shock at Gilgamesh’s sudden appearance. It’s his first time to see him in the flesh—Enkidu can hardly fault him for the way he draws back.

They feel satisfaction too, taunting openly in the back of his mind, _“Coward.”_

His demeanor as a king has not wavered, despite their passing.

Good. A tool should never have such a weighty influence on a king. The loss of a weapon at his side should not burden him beyond function. He seems to have grown from their absence; wiser with the same haughty bite to his voice. His overwhelming arrogance is not lost on them, but they would not have him any other way. Instead they feel a surge of pride at the sight of Gilgamesh, even with the beat of dread that clammers its way forward. Instinct draws them towards him in an undignified swell of emotion, pressing against the boundaries of their own body.

It should be understood: what Kingu feels, Enkidu also feels. His reign of control is so steadfast that every beat of emotion is forced upon them in an unstoppable wave. All the anger, the hatred, the superiority is recognized instantly when none of it is their own. But that does not mean Kingu takes what Enkidu feels in return.

But then—the apprehension strikes like a match to their insides, and it’s like their veins are coated in oil. Dread filling their body, his body, all at once. Hesitation forms cracks in his speech when he’d been so confident before. Kingu stutters now, the words that came so easily to him suddenly lacking in the face of a king.

Enkidu latches onto the sudden gaps. To do the only thing they can—to feel.

To remind this body of what it is meant to do.

Kingu’s threats are as fierce as ever, if not more so. Made sure to be pointed because they fill in where the aggression of an attack does not. And in the brief moment of their exchange, Enkidu thinks to only themself:

_Leave._

As if it is only natural that their body listen to them, finally, they do just that.

Kingu departs the scene without another word.

Enkidu relishes in what it means to have control, even if for only a moment.

 

 

—

 

 

They refuse to leave the space they now occupy. Because that hesitation that wracks through the both of them gives Enkidu as much reason as it does the means to wrestle for control when it matters most. It leaves Gilgamesh unscathed, for now; it has their host plagued with secret doubt that only they can feel in tandem with him.

And they come to be like a quiet whisper for him. Quietly tucked behind his ear—but always coming from within.

It’s pettiness—to become the paranoia that wars with him, that grows the loudest when he’s alone, to be present even when he’s with others.

One night, they laugh at him. Cool like the wind, with the subtlety of a breeze that rustles his hair and sets his skin alight with goosebumps.

“Such lofty threats to kill a king from one who cannot even face him. Not that I would let you—”

But Kingu’s voice erupts, breaking the stillness of the air around them, sparking with a pent up rage.

It’s an unexpected interruption. Enkidu doesn’t expect the acknowledgement—they’ve gone so long without it; nor do they anticipate the strain of his voice, the anger that Kingu suddenly screams back with.

_“This body is mine!”_

They sit in a stunned silence, letting a beat pass between them.

“This body was never yours,” they say back, eventually, a calm contrast to him. Whether they are a whisper or a fully rendered voice in his ear, they aren’t sure. Enkidu only perceives the disruption of his relief. The split second he thought he might have chased them away with his tantrum, gone just as quickly upon their reply.

“As it was never mine,” Enkidu laughs quietly, to themself, for only Kingu to hear. “As it will never be your mother’s; nor will it ever truly belong to anyone else who might try to lay claim to it.’

They feel the balling of their fists, tightly wound, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of their palm. Kingu is careless with this vessel—and it always shows in the smallest of his habits.

“Then if not you, who—”

“There will only be one that can claim ownership of this body.”

“The gods who killed you then? The ones who should have done a better job at eradicating you. A job that I will follow through with, by the—”

“No,” they say, cutting off his threat. “Not even the gods.”

And all at once they feel his dread; the sinking of his stomach as he realizes before they even have to say so.

“And that is why you will never be able to kill him.”

They would try to smile at this point, offer up an expression of serenity and knowing all the same.

“This body will not allow you to do such a thing.”

 

 

—

 

 

Their time back in their body affords them little else but time, even once they’ve become an undeniable presence. One that Kingu keeps to himself, of course.

“Afraid your mother will do away with you?” They taunt him, already knowing the truth. A shared body and a shared consciousness means there is no room to lie.

“Silent. Your existence in this does not matter in this, not anymore,” he whispers back to them, sharp hissing under his breath.

“Then I imagine yours holds just as much weight as my own.”

He lets out a frustrated groan.

But the interactions are brief in the grand scheme of things; despite their forced company, they do not seek to speak with Kingu more often than necessary. Enkidu, little more than an unreachable concept, hidden underneath the however many layers that construct the one who runs things now, drifts through the end of times feeling sympathy for the humans who perish; an unfathomable empathy for the pieces of the earth that are laid to waste at the cost of such destruction.

In their idle time, they are left with memories only.

A state of mind they do not care for, all things considered. To reflect due to witnessing destruction makes for a heavier heart than they care for. Enough that, on occasion, they feel a flicker of discomfort from Kingu—but he presses on without care, Enkidu unable to stop him.

And everywhere they go, the memory of Gilgamesh lingers.

He’s king after all, and they had been by his side, going all over the land as needed, as frequently as can be expected.

Enkidu tries to think of other things; they’re not so keen to share those with Kingu.

But it can’t be helped. Their mind is a perilous thing.

The Cedar Forest was home once. Home to their madness and then later on to an adventure shared. But time has shown no mercy to their memory, and while they resonate with the land around them, it has changed with their absence.

Such is the way of nature, of course. They bear the growing trees and its sprawling vines no ill will.

Kingu takes them through the forest, crossing the thick of the trees, the dirt soft underneath his heel, fingers passing over bark and branch. He’s comfortable here, at ease with shadow of the forest that looms overhead.

But time cannot weather away all of their memories. The things they left behind—

Their eyes catch a carved mark imprinted into the deep red bark of a tree. Written so plainly against the grain, even all this time later it sticks out to them, in spite of its simplicity. Nothing more than an hollowed out mark, scarred with time but enough that they might run their fingers through with ease.

And so the memory goes.

 

 

They stop a moment to rest. The forest is different, younger—still cruel, still wonderful. Gilgamesh moves forward but does not stray too far from their side as Enkidu watches his back. Focused on the curve between his shoulder blades, the hand that reaches up to push his hair backwards, out of his eyes.

He turns, catching their stare.

“Your gaze is shameless. As it has been for hours now. Does your curiosity overwhelm you, my friend?”

Gilgamesh speaks as if to tease them. Enkidu smiles in return, stepping forward once; twice.

“You assume I am curious?”

“Overwhelmed with the sight of me then.”

“That would please you.”

He laughs—the sound full; birds scatter overhead at the sound, branches rustling, wings flapping as they part in time with his laughter. “It is simply the way of things, Enkidu. A king is hardly a king if he cannot command every gaze upon himself.”

Enkidu takes another step towards him.

The corner of his mouth stays quirked, even once his laughter fades away. They eventually past him, no longer looking at him, their shoulder coming to rest against a tree, back facing him.

“You spoke of me as your equal,” they muse, gaze stretching over the expanse of the greenery in front of them—still all too aware of where he stands behind them. “Then it stands to reason that you should also feel the need to look at nothing else.”

“A dangerous thing,” they conclude. “The cedar forest is not kind to the distracted.”

Enkidu feels him close behind; close enough to bring a hand to their back, fingers coming to their hair, pulling it aside with a slow sweep of his hand. Gilgamesh speaks, amused, voice caught behind the ear he uncovers. “There is nothing in the forest that can harm me,” he says, no denial for how he may or may not focus his stare onto them. “Anything foolish enough to try will not survive the attempt.”

“Myself included?”

“Do you seek a rematch?”

“No,” they laugh themself, head turning so that they can face him. “Not at this moment. But you have such bold words for someone who has not tested his might against Humbaba yet.”

“You should not threaten the forest in front of me, Gil.”

His hand comes up, his fingers grazing their neck; thumb eventually coming to rest on their cheek. Gilgamesh, fierce and arrogant; gold enough to challenge the sun itself, imparts a gentleness upon Enkidu that he has never given to anyone else before them.

“You insult me, Enkidu,” he says, no scorn in his voice.

And they, Enkidu; his most adamant critic and wholly unrivaled admirer, smiles at his touch, staying still as his hand slides up and rests comfortably against the back of their neck.

“Then it stands to reason,” an echo of their earlier taunt, “that I should not indulge myself until the beast is slain.”

Enkidu eventually turns, their back against the tree, to face him. A hand finds purchase on his hip, lingering softly a moment before pulling forward with a gentle tug.

“I did not say such a thing.”

Gilgamesh laughs again, louder, brighter, head thrown back with amusement.

Their other hand finds the front of his shirt, palm resting easily against his chest. But his suddenly materializes a dagger (golden, sharp but short; jewels encrusted in the hilt; so typical of his vault), pointed end coming into contact with the tree, just over their shoulder. It carves deep, upwards—

“And now you disrespect the trees,” they roll their eyes, looking away from the marking he leaves.

“I’m ensuring that we do not lose our way on the journey back.”

“As if I would allow us to be lost.”

“Then let it be a reminder.”

“Of what?”

The dagger dissipates in a mist of gold once he’s done. His fingers still resting against Enkidu’s cheek gently turns their face back to him.

“A mark left upon the Cedar Forest; so that it will never forget that the King of Uruk once stood in this spot to issue his challenge to all that dwell within.”

They stay silent; Gilgamesh quirks a brow. “Are you angry, Enkidu—”

In an instant they take his shoulder with one hand, his arm with the other, interrupting to grab him, pulling him around and pushing his back against the tree with a small thud. They trade spots with him, forearm pressed to his chest now, one hand still on his shoulder.

A hand which, after a moment, drifts upwards to the freshly carved wound of the bark. Their thumb runs against the splintered tree; Enkidu presses forward, leaning up so that their forehead comes against his.

“So you’re the sentimental type? I see.”

He scoffs, indignant at the label. “Is it sentimentality to leave one’s mark on the world, wherever he pleases? It is simply my right, nothing more.”

Enkidu finds themself smiling again, no rhyme or reason attached to the affection that blooms in their chest, or the hand that relocates itself to the side of his face, fingers brushing back his hair.

“Then I suppose I have work to do.”

Their mouth comes to his then, seeking a kiss that does not shy away from claiming him for themself. A kiss as deep as it promises to be long, their breath exchanged for his. They press to him, finding personal satisfaction in the way his hand comes to the back of their head, fingers tightly wound in their hair—

 

 

“Enough!”

They startle out of the memory, nostalgia ripped away from them with one angry, bitter motion.

Kingu stands still, eyes stuck to the tree, to the mark left upon it. His fists curl tightly, his stomach turns nervously—and his voice rings with desperation.

“Just—enough.”

He breathes in sharp, finally moving on from the area. The memory is left behind, their mark upon the world sure to be destroyed with the rest of Uruk.

“You do no favors for either of us,” is all he says, falling silent afterwards.

For once, Enkidu does not have a reply.

 

 

—

 

 

Enkidu realizes they are expendable long before Kingu dares to claim control, depriving them of the autonomy they took for granted in a previous life. Both in body and soul does their worth have its limits, defined by the gods who dispose of them without a second though and their own vocal insistence of this before they die. Even by the most powerful of beings can their chains be broken.

Kingu, arrogant in his youth, lost in the privilege that Tiamat bestows upon him (so heavy is it that Enkidu would wrinkle their nose at the praise, the expectations, if they had the option to do so), does not realize his restrictions until they are forced upon him.

Quite literally ripped from his chest, despite the outcry of protests. Tiamat’s holy grail, once a gift, is no longer his to claim. His right to superiority stripped away in less than a few moments; such is the disposal of even the most useful of tools.

He bleeds easily, too stunned with the change of the tide to fight back properly.

Enkidu tries to speak above the discord of his panic. But it’s like speaking above the roar of rushing waters while caught in the tides. His sensibility is lost in a heartbeat, and their grip on consciousness clings desperately to the confines of his mind, trying not to be swept away.

And he is reminded, over and over, cruelty tenfold each time it is said:

_You are._

_Obsolete._

_You. Are. Nothing._

Oh, how they empathize with the sadness that racks through his body, leaving him in shambles. The torment, the horror that climbs up his throat in a vocalized mess of tears and bloody words that reach no one but them. Enkidu has no comfort to give him. Anything they can think to say would either be too cruel or an undignified lie, and they aren’t so merciless as to offer such a thing in his final moments.

Their final moments.

Kingu runs from the inevitable.

Enkidu braces for it.

To be dead is rather painless. The process of dying, they come to realize in these rushed moments, the minutes leading up to that eternal draw of the curtain, is what makes death so much harder. To wish for more time or want for another chance. To feel regret, to simply want to live, and avoid death entirely.

This is all rather painless to them; nothing compared to their first encounter with dying.

But—

_Ah._

And it’s their mind that speaks out in the unsettling quiet that settles before the Lahmu strike down.

Or maybe—both?

_If only I’d known… I wish I’d gone to see him one last time._

Kingu closes his eyes; Enkidu greets the dark like an old friend.

But the pain the two of them anticipate does not come.

The Lahmu that speaks to them stands alone, shambling, weaker than the others, barely clinging to its life. The others that had been threatening them are gone now, chorus of daunting laughter disappearing with them. Still, paranoia flashes its hand for a second, leaving Kingu confused but apprehensive of the one that takes their place, as if this one means to do the job of taking his life alone.

_Run Now._

_Enkidu._

Their heart sinks at the call of their name.

_Please._

_Find Your Happiness._

It’s easy to recognize Siduri, despite the monstrous form forced upon her. Such a familiar face from their time in Uruk, now a messenger of the people before she disappears. Her presence resonates with them in a beat of nostalgia as she clings to what remains of her consciousness, even like this.

Stuck behind a veil, denied any sense of control while forced to listen to their own voice question her intentions, they understand what she might be feeling.

She sings Enkidu's praises with a broken voice that gets quieter for every word spoken. She tells the story of their influence, and speaks of the love Uruk has for Enkidu. Enkidu, as beautiful as they were green, who lead their king to greatness, who the people mourned upon their passing. Who the citizens of Uruk thank for all they had done to save them; to save Gilgamesh.

And now it is their turn not to understand. Enkidu watches, left to ponder in upsetting silence on why anyone would speak so highly of one who was only a tool to their king. Who, upon becoming faulty and disappearing, left him in shambles, only for his kingdom to nearly ruin.

With an unexpected sadness (grief that grips them both tightly, dazed and confused and guilt ridden in the confines of their chest) Enkidu tries to call back to her. Filling the gaps of Kingu’s grasp on their body to try and seize control—to reach an arm out, to smile or say her name, however softly, willing for anything as final effort to let her known that she is heard.

There is nothing, of course.

She disappears without incident or proper acknowledgement.

All Enkidu can do is stare at where she once stood until Kingu moves on.

 

 

—

 

 

They speak to him, eventually.

Enkidu waits patiently for Kingu to find cover outside of the forest. He's careful to avoid the Lahmu that click and laugh their way through the carnage, freezing in fear when something rustles too close, but never so close that he is caught. Blood stains his steps, his forehead—occasionally he reaches up to swipe a shaking palm over his brow. It is a half-hearted attempt to keep the red from his vision—but it does little good for him. And for every step he maintains a tight grip at the vacancy in his chest.

He'll die like this, surely.

Nothing is cold about Enkidu's voice when they remind Kingu of their presence; only a vague sympathy ties itself to what they say, soft but still knowing. As if they had always expected this.

Perhaps they had.

"So Tiamat is like other gods."

Kingu does not reply.

"I did try to warn you."

Enkidu does not have Gilgamesh's clairvoyance, but experience has taught them more than enough about the ways that gods will always treat their tools.

A tool should never be given a heart.

It only begets it pain in the end. A beautiful accessory that only makes them destined to be tragedies once they are gotten rid of. If only they had the practicality to know when they have lost and accept it without question; if only they could simply lay down and die as needed, but the gift of humanity can cause a tool to go beyond its predetermined limits.

Yes—Enkidu was made stronger by Shamhat's gift to them, by the care given to them by Gilgamesh. But even now they are unsure it was worth the flaws they gained in the process; if their humanity was worth the price paid by others in the end.

"Mother—" Kingu should not speak, but he is helpless to defend the one who claims the affections of his heart.

"My mother—is different. I am her child—"

"I do not see your mother here, Kingu."

"And I do not see your king!"

"My king protects his people in their final moments," Enkidu does not snap. They only inform, their voice steady and smooth, maybe even a comfort. "He has no reason to come to you or to me."

A beat of silence.

"The end of the world is not kind to the distracted. I would not even seek him out myself, if given the chance."

"Why?"

Kingu surprises them with this question.

"You felt it—I felt it too. Regret in the moment when we were almost struck down. Your sadness plagues me, puppet. And it comes with such an easy solution."

The more he speaks, the more anger fills his voice. Anger—for what? Enkidu cannot possibly fathom it; irritation on their behalf, maybe?

"You mean to tell me— you run the chance of controlling this vessel again, and that you won't even use it to—"

"He lost me once before."

Enkidu cuts him off, and it's now that they nearly snap at Kingu—voice rising with more edge than they even mean to show. Honesty feels like a terrible thing to them. But it feels pointless to try and lie when the end nears for them all.

"I would not risk it again; not on a stage where the world itself is unlikely to survive what's been done to it. Is that so hard to understand?"

Kingu has nothing to say. He limps forward with nowhere to go, likely fed up with Enkidu's excuses. Fair enough—they have nothing more to offer him.

Though he finally concludes, minutes later, "You infuriate me. You stay in my head; you influence my feelings with your own—and you do not even act on them."

"I could not even if tried. And I have."

"You wouldn't even if you could."

"You anger me as well."

"Good."

 

 

—

 

 

So much time passes, Enkidu wonders how much Kingu has left in him to keep walking. If he even means to go anywhere, or to simply walk until he has died.

"You should hide this body, Kingu. Perhaps allow it to be destroyed. It won't do any good to leave it behind for yet another to find."

He does not reply; now absolutely despondent in his abandonment. They imagine this will be their final piece of advice to him.

Orange twilight trades itself out for a night sky. Silky black with the stars still burning brightly against it. Still beautiful, years later, as it should be. At least this will be single kindness to witness before they are gone.

They consider letting go. It seems easy to do; it's not as if they were meant to remain here, anyways. To fade away and leave Kingu with his thoughts and a broken body; an offering of peace. But an unfathomable hesitation grips them each time they think to slip into nothingness.

Naturally they think of Gilgamesh, giving up on abandoning Kingu to his fate. He does not react to the memories they conjure, only going forward and maintaining his silence.

Enkidu focuses on the same things they had thought of when lying on their deathbed. What made them happiest; what made them undeniably more human than they would ever like to admit. Hair a veil as they lean down for a kiss, sunlight bathed in a bedroom in his palace. Covered in the blood of Humbaba, strung thin from their first victory together. Body torn to pieces, barely holding form as he slowly puts a bloody arm over their shoulder, guiding them to rest and recover from their fight. Their quiet smile, the prelude to a storm, as they stand on the steps of that celestial hill, challenging him for the first time.

"Why did I... come here?"

They startle from the memories, recognizing instantly where they find themselves.

"It's a place you remember well. The place you made your first friend, and made a vow."

"So it is. It wasn’t my intention to bring you here. I'm sorry."

"I brought myself here," he snaps, wary.

"It's... meaningless. This place is meaningless, and so am I.”

He manages only a few more steps forward, but he comes to his knees quick. Enkidu feels the exhaustion that seeps into him; the utter detachment as he succumbs to his self-perceived worthlessness and the injuries that still seep blood. The steps below stain red underneath the weight of him, but the darkness falls over the both of them quickly as Kingu closes his eyes.

Fools.

Both of them.

 

 

His voice breaks the night air. Quick as a whip and so familiar. The relief it brings is so sweet on their skin—

“What are you doing? Why don’t you stand, fool?”

—their, their skin—oh how Enkidu aches, suddenly, for it to be their skin that flushes with the warmth of nostalgia and not his. To believe that they would be strong enough, despite their minuscule existence, to leap forward and seize control. They wish for the chance to die with more dignity than a pool of blood at their knees can afford them while in front of him; to stand, like they have any pride left to lean on, despite the injury, and greet an old friend.

Kingu’s eyes flash open to the sight of Gilgamesh. His face does not contort with pain, nor does his voice waver as he speaks to him—harsh and high above Kingu's head, unforgiving, certainly, but softer than Enkidu expects it to be when they think of the tyrant he was before.

What they would now give for the strength to be strong enough, despite their minuscule existence, and leap forward with control. They wish for the chance to die with more dignity than a pool of blood at their knees can afford them while in front of him; to stand, like they have any pride left to lean on, despite the injury, and greet an old friend.

"What gives you the right— to look down on me!?"

Kingu reminds them of who has control.

They flicker with panic.

"Dammit," his curse strains past bloody teeth, stinging as a hand clasps desperately to his chest. "I can't— I can't let you see me—"

(They had told him, with such honesty, "I would not even seek him out."

"He lost me once before.")

But Kingu does not have the strength to run from him; Enkidu does not have the will to force him.

When he is so close—

They might reach out, like they had wanted to before. Press their fingertips to his chest and laugh at how exposed he allows himself to be in this age. More than a signal of their presence—it would become a conversation, their voice much softer than the angry inflections Kingu forces, and fonder of how he suddenly appears, absolutely inconvenient, absolutely undeniable.

A reunion.

Gold clatters at Kingu's feet, a grail tossed forward with seemingly little attention to where it goes, but it finds its mark sure enough.

The hole in his chest fills.

He’s whole again so easily. Even the blood on his skin filters away, as if taken and cleaned by the gentle breeze that sits with the both of them atop the hill. Each wound closes, every pain alleviates. Kingu will live and Gilgamesh has made sure of it.

“He’s saved you,” Enkidu says quietly.

“Why— Why are you doing this!? I’m your enemy, Tiamat made me—”

His stubbornness persists, even now?

Enkidu might laugh sadly, looking upon him. Rest a hand to his shoulder and squeeze tightly, resigned to his stubbornness. They would look him in the eye, shaking their head and ask him, “Even now?”

Kingu shouts painful reminders, still clutching at his chest; as if he fears to lose what’s been given to him. As if Gilgamesh is cruel enough to perform such an act with him, the one who steals their body. “I’m not your Enkidu!”

“I’m just a doll, with a different heart inside.”

“That’s right,” Enkidu feels the acceptance of his voice. He has always known that they had not returned to him, not really; he has had more than enough time to process and accept it. No sadness, not in front of him; only a fact that he has carried all this time. “You’re not Enkidu. You’re someone else using a stolen body.”

“But even so, you are still worthy of my protection.”

“No. My friendship.”

There's precedent for this, of course. The reasoning would be lost on Kingu, but Enkidu remembers being called friend and fool all the same. On a night like this, in the same spot—not only an equal, far more than a tool, as per his insistence. They had accepted it largely in silence, as unsure as Kingu is now—maybe even more so.

“Even if your heart and soul are different, that body of yours is the one and only Chain of the Heavens on Earth!”

“It is only my body, Gil. Any weapon can be broken,” they argue where he cannot hear.

He scoffs as if he can, and Enkidu wishes to huff back.

“Once, someone insisted they were a weapon to the very end.”

In death, hidden where he cannot possibly know of them, he knows them best. They should not feel surprised—they should not read into the response or the vague hope that beats in their chest. Hope that he might recognize where they truly stand, despite Kingu’s presence and his own acceptance. But shock and sadness catches so easily onto their emotions these days.

“But if I had taken them at their word, then it’s only natural for me to care for you.”

Enkidu was not meant to endure so much melancholy.

“Farewell, Kingu. It’s the end of the world.”

Gilgamesh turns his back to him— _them_ —a single wave of his hand over his shoulder, as if dismissing them.

“Do as you will.”

He walks away, back up the steps, but Kingu calls after him. His voice quiet for a moment, soft with confusion, the most he’s ever sounded like them, in the midst of all of this.

“Wait… I don’t understand. What do you—”

Gilgamesh cuts him off, voice carrying clearly in the distance set between them.

“I’m telling you that, no matter who your mother is or how you were born, simply do the things you really want to do.”

A moment of pause.

Enkidu feels its weight. The sort that comes with sorrow. So subtle, it’s only the smallest of waves, rolling off his shoulders into the air so that it might disappear into the night. But who else to recognize it but them?

“Like we once did.”

“Who could match our splendor?” And Enkidu would smile at him here, eyes glued to his back, all while letting him go. “You put a heavy burden on him, Gilgamesh.”

But he is not wrong. Of course he isn’t.

“You said you lost everything? That’s laughable. You still have your freedom. You can shut down your heart later.”

 

 

—

 

 

On the second day, Enkidu asks to go outside.

The first was spent sullenly. Celebrations for the Bull of Heaven’s defeat were halted so abruptly that the festival still lingers in the streets in sad leftovers that remain too long. Abandoned stalls, trash cluttering the pathways, and doors kept shut, downcast faces hiding behind them. Uruk, happy for a moment, is a smaller version of its future self.

It mourns.

Enkidu will not have it. Rather, they cannot stand it—the palace halts all movement, as if to anticipate their death. Gilgamesh does not sit upon his throne, and Enkidu remains still, placed among the finest of silks and pillows so that they will know no discomfort. Gilgamesh would see that someone lose their head if Enkidu did not seem completely at ease, but no blood is spilt. Enkidu rests, waiting to see if (or when) things begin to feel differently, itching with inactivity.

“I want to leave this bed,” they mumble quietly, face turned into the sheets, their hair a mess. Gilgamesh lies next to them, eyes open, his hand holding their own.

He has rarely let go of them ever since finding out.

“Then you will stand. Do you wish to stretch your legs? I will accompany you through the corridors—”

“I want,” Enkidu interrupts, slowly pushing themself up with a quiet sigh. They try not to be unsettled by so much accomodation so quickly; Gilgamesh has only ever given them everything they have asked, it is nothing out of the ordinary, not really; but the knowing of what awaits them has changed something in the way that they hear him say such things.

They smile, fingers lacing with his as they squeeze his hand.

“I want to be outside. That is all. I miss the sun—I would like to see flowers.”

He holds their laced hands up, leans in so that his lips find their knuckles to kiss them quietly, easily. “Then you will go outside.”

“Will you carry me there?”

He doesn’t respond outright. Rather, he furrows his brow, frowning—

“My sense of humor is not landing with its usual ease.”

He suddenly laughs.

Laughter which is more comfort to them than the sun could ever be. It is one of the last times they are allowed to hear such a sound.

“I believe you’ve become more morbid, Enkidu. Fair enough, but allow me the time to grow accustomed to it.”

“Then I will sprint across the room and throw myself out the window to comfort you.”

“Go on then. I am eager for such a sight.”

The both of them laugh.

Minutes later they are eventually outdoors, with Enkidu walking the whole of the journey and Gilgamesh close to their side. Servants bow their heads when the two of them pass; Siduri does not approach with the list of tasks that have surely built up over the course of the past two days. Quiet, absolutely, but normal enough.

It sets them more at ease than they realized it might, simply to see Uruk function, regardless of their state.

Enkidu sprawls in a familiar meadow, outstretched, comfortable. They make a point to keep their breath quiet (They cannot tell—is it too quick? Is it ragged now? The walk was long but surely they are still capable of such a menial task), and focus their eye on the expanse of blue sky that hangs above the two of them. Their fingers idly toy with the gentle petals of the flowers surrounding them, and their head rests neatly in Gilgamesh’s lap.

“Satisfied?” he asks them.

“Of course,” they reply. “And you?”

He is silent—long enough to evoke a stare from Enkidu. They reach up, slowly, taking his chin between their fingers. To tilt his face back towards them and raise a brow once they capture his gaze. “There is no reason for you not to be.”

“Do not presume on my behalf whether or not I am content, Enkidu.”

Abruptly they sit up. Their eyes close with their back facing him, leaning back onto the palms of their hands.

“You have lost many weapons, Gilgamesh.”

“You—”  
  
Their voice raises, disconcerting in the way it stays calm, even as they cut him off. They sound almost clinical now, as if they read from the pages of a history book. Reciting objective fact, nothing more. “And you will surely lose many more. I admit I have been selfish in many ways, but if there is time to rectify what I have done before I pass, then allow me to do so.”

“But I apologize.”

Enkidu turns their head to look at him. Forced to be expressionless as they explain. “I made a promise that I would stay at your side until the end of the world.”

“I had made it clear to you before, you fool, yet you would force me to repeat myself?” Gilgamesh’s hand snaps forward, too quickly for them to draw back, capturing Enkidu’s wrist with his fingers. The more he speaks, the louder his voice becomes—angry, of course, but with depth beyond aggravation that sparks regret inside them. “I call you a friend, but you insist otherwise. You spurn the word of a king, then?”

“Every weapon in my vault is with value. The touch of a mongrel is not worthy of them, only my own. But you—”

“—are breaking.”

Again, they interrupt him.

“I am breaking. Even you cannot deny that.”

In the beginning, Enkidu envies him. Down the line, they almost seem to emulate him—abandoning the purpose the gods bestowed them—the sole reason of their creation, remade to fit at his side. An equal in every way.

They wonder if he regrets saying such a thing; or even if he does not now, if he will once they have gone.

In part, it’s their own arrogance that breaks them. Subtly, but sure enough. To seek a life spent at his side as his equal, when he should have none, can only be thought of as arrogance.

“I do not wish to insult your judgement; but let me say this: treat my loss as you would the loss of any other weapon in your treasury, Gilgamesh. Do not allow Uruk suffer for any mistakes I’ve made.”

When their shoulders slump, Enkidu finally lacking anymore speech, they realize the extent of their own exhaustion. Fatigue does not come to them this often, if ever, and the way it catches them is enough to render them quietly breathless. Gilgamesh notices, of course, coming forward to catch their form with his arms, holding them upright.

Enkidu sighs, letting themself lean against him. Anything Gilgamesh might have to say is far from this moment.

“Do not take me inside,” they mumble, so far back that they eventually rest against his chest, hands over his arms that stay steady around them.

They feel the stillness of his body, a sudden restriction of his breath as if the movement of his chest would disturb them.

Enkidu wishes to take his hand with theirs again and lace their fingers back together, as if to ignore everything they have just said to him.

But the road to repentance is a long one they force themselves to endure.

Gilgamesh takes their hand regardless.

Enkidu does not pull away.

 

 

—

 

 

It’s nearly dawn, now.

The world trembles and the sky remains dark, but turned murky now; gray and aching for the blue it’s so used to. The Lahmu are eager to gather around their mother—and the rest of the land is left vacant but crumbling, soon to be taken over.

Tiamat begins to make her final approach, horrifying on the horizon that they both observe from a distance.

“What good is our freedom?” Kingu asks. “We have a few hours of it at best. Does Gilgamesh want for me to take in the sight of a dying kingdom?” With a small huff, he kicks his foot, sending pebbles scattering forward.

But he is not angry. Only confused.

Enkidu is silent.

“Hey,” he prods for a response, clearly used to the way they always seem to have something to say.

Nothing.

_“Hey.”_

Enkidu sighs, weary. “I am here.”  
  
Kingu pauses—no, he hesitates—eyes downcast, unable to look at her even from so far away. But there is another thought that seems to weigh heavy on him, and now it is Enkidu’s turn to prod.

“You still do not understand why he saved you?”

“How could I?”

“You really are a hopeless fool.”

“I am the result of a desecrated grave. If he wanted, he could have protected your body once I was free of it.”

“But here you stand,” Enkidu reminds him. “Healthy. Free. Perhaps even more powerful than you were before. Given the opportunity to do what I was unable to do myself.”

“Tiamat has no influence over you; she has no reign over the body you keep. Your life is truly your own, Kingu. It’s something like a gift, really. You should do with it whatever you please.”

Somewhere along the way of Enkidu speaking, Kingu begins to walk. Where, neither of them are sure, but as he does he speaks, “Then I leave this place. I never return to it—I simply live as I see fit.”

“If that is what you want, I cannot stop you.”

“Would you leave me then?”

“Most likely. At least, eventually. You are not my favorite company to keep, after all.”

Kingu lets out a harsh chuckle; Enkidu laughs with him.

“I would have no reason to stay. Yes, I would leave. This body would truly be your own.”

Suddenly, he stops. Frozen into place—conflict rising within him, as per what Enkidu can recognize. They nearly ask what troubles him, but Kingu finds his words once more.

“No,” he says. “It wouldn’t be.”

“But you—”

“Idiot,” he snaps, scathing now, almost scolding them. Enkidu might be affronted, but— “Do you not remember what you told me before?”

But they are interrupted when, almost out of nowhere, something dives at them—shiny and black, shelled like an insect with flickering wings that beat furiously in the air. The Lahmu rains down in the blink of an eye, laughing and clicking.

_Found You. Found. You._

_Found—_

Kingu raises a hand, palm outstretched in the air, arm reaching out. In an instant, gold chains materialize from thin air, wrapping tight around the monster’s body.

“This body is not ours,” he says.

More chains—pointed at their ends, coming down and piercing the hard armor shell of the Lahmu. It disappears in an instant, lifeless, gold dematerializing with it.

“But we are free to do as we please with this body. Act upon our own whims or see it through until the end.” Enkidu completes the thought.

The two think of Gilgamesh. Each of their own accord, each in their own way—but their thoughts come to him, regardless.

“You made a promise to him,” Kingu reminds them. “To stand by his side until the end of the world. Here you are. The end can be only hours away now,” he points out, looking to the sky, looking to Tiamat, who has grown even closer now.

“You want to see him,” Enkidu realizes. Or at least—they point it out now.

“Only as much as you do.”

“Make no mistake,” Kingu suddenly berates them, his voice haughty as he begins to march forward again, “I have my own wishes and needs, much more than this trash that mother believes can replace me. I am still a new human. These weaklings are nothing when compared to myself.”

“Of course,” Enkidu says. “I would not think you to be well if you did not remind me.”

“Good.”

“To his side, then?” Their voice is softer, pressed with the idea of seeing him again; of being seen by him. Enkidu seeks a final confirmation of where Kingu will take them, so that they might brace themselves for the finality of it.

“Yes,” Kingu answers. “To his side.”

 

 

—

 

 

Enkidu had sought control at first. Months of their time spent here is nothing more than a constant push to become more than a feeling. Vying to be beyond just the single grain of their soul that filters about, paling in comparison to the fullness of Kingu’s existence.

Their belief is the same: that this body is not their own.

But they had almost forgotten their realization. A fact tucked away in the back of their own consciousness, hidden like a secret until they remember too late:

This body is capable of far more than they could ever imagine.

Kingu takes the two of them to Tiamat—and that he will not survive this fight is a fact that goes unspoken.

Too many have found their death here already, and so many more will after him.

Uruk burns in a dark blaze, and if anyone is left then they are nowhere to be found. Ushered to safety, perhaps, but it’s hard to imagine that anywhere remains safe in the midst of this chaos. Its wall crumbles, its king bleeds; but even as Gilgamesh faces the end, he does so with a pride that will never be imitated for the rest of humanity’s history.

And Kingu—with his own pride—voices his acceptance.

The Lahmu scream at his appearance, Tiamat cries out and Enkidu is not sure if she cries in grief or anger. Both, perhaps, if she feels betrayed.

He ignores the call.

“I have not sided with humans,” is his snapped reply. “I am Kingu, the one and only member of the new humanity.”

One after the other Tiamat’s tools are struck down. They scream in defiance, hopelessly pulling against the chains that bind them before they are reduced to nothing. Kingu works quickly—he has little time left now, afterall.

“However—”

With a single word Enkidu feels a change begin shift within him. Kingu’s pride has been so absolute it maintains an outright control, regardless of their influence. If he did not want to be here, then he would not be, that much is clear.

Their eyes come to the sky, or rather, their eyes seek out his shape. They feel him here—still alive, still fighting.

“I wanted to see you.”

They do not find him.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

They will never be afforded the chance again.

“All of the memories left in this heart, and my impressions of them. I wanted to share them with you, as your friend.”

Enkidu does not even realize the brief second they are given control. It is not a complete relinquishment on Kingu’s behalf, but they resonate so purely with the sentiment he expresses, with his heart and mind alike, that they are pulled forward in an instant.

Perhaps he felt them in that moment, flickering to the surface, faint but real enough. And even if that is the case, he cannot come to them.

_I am here,_ they would tell him. _I am here to keep my promise._

“Farewell, mother,” says Kingu. “You chose the wrong child.”

When he speaks, they speak with him. He knows the words already and Enkidu would not choose to say anything else. It’s an impossible partnership, one that will go unacknowledged and unheard of, buried under the ruins of Uruk. The ones from Chaldea will never know that it was both Kingu and Enkidu who bound Tiamat that day.

But Gilgamesh.

Well, even of that they cannot be sure.

“I will awaken the breath of stars.”

_Enuma Elish—_

 

 

—

 

 

_I remember those words._

“You lived with me, spoke with me, fought with me.”

“That’s not a person, nor a tool.”

“That’s called a friend, Enkidu.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to bent for keeping me on track and cheering me on. (':


End file.
